2.28.2006

My life has gotten considerably better since I've left the bedbugs behind. Now that I have a stable home environment, I'm able to work on development of self-actualization (read: directing my life toward the fulfillment of cupcake cravings). I'm even getting to the point where I can be grateful for my experience, because its taught me some very valuable lessons (namely, to always check your bed very, very carefully before going to sleep).

Today, it just all sucks.

Because of those motherfucking bedbugs, I no longer have a television. The Amazing Race is on tonight, and I'm going to miss it.

2.27.2006

I am tired. I am sick. I am trying to complete a final project. I am in the student lounge in the Social Work building. I am listening to iTunes through my computer. I am watching people make selections from the vending machines. I am looking at vacation destinations for spring break even though I have $63.84 in my bank account. I am wearing a 'Cherish Every Body' bracelet in recognition of Eating Disorders Awareness Week. I am looking at about 4 more hours of work tonight on this project.

2.23.2006

...semi-seriously plotted with The Lawyer to toilet paper the car and/or personal property of anyone who ever did us wrong.

...managed to successfully curtail my chocolate consumption with the aid of a venti Starbucks and a pack of Orbit bubblemint.

...saw five clients, one of whom insisted that I be 'more critical' of her as a means of personal improvement.

...reconsidered my decision to travel to DC this weekend to see my boys because I have a final project due on Tuesday which means that, while my friends are drinking and eating potato wedges like it's their job, I'll be self-sequestered in some remote corner, typing away furiously, and silently begging them to turn the music down and subsequently berating myself for being such a loser.

...barely restrained myself from punching random pedestrians in the back of the head because I was trying to quickly exit the subway and couldn't they tell that I was trying to get to the library before it closed so I could blog my very important thoughts? Then I laughed because a punch to the back of head is always funny, as long as it's not happening to you.

...began to dread the Greyhound bus trip to DC, which led to thoughts of how nice it would be to be able to take the train instead, but that's too expensive and wow, am I always going to have to worry about money since I'll most likely be making less money with my graduate degree than when I quit my job to go to graduate school and do I really want to be a social worker anyway?

...got my second round of Hep B vaccination, which immobilized my right arm.

2.16.2006

In the midst of several truly shitty days, a snippet of good news: my previous apartment management company just called and said that they are returning my security deposit in full and waiving the entire past due balance that I owe them. Ok, crawling back into bed now...

2.13.2006

I just spent the morning delivering a program in the student center for my internship. Perhaps more accurately, I should say that I just spent the morning attemtping to lure people to my table with a basket full of chocolate candy, with the possibility that they would also read and absorb the available information about alcohol and relationships helpfully provided by my office.

The theme of the literature was the increased risk for unplanned or unwanted sexual activity if one chooses to drink excessively. Statistics indicate that 90% of all college sexual assaults involve the use of alcohol by either the assailant or the survivor. The booklet which we were distributing today includes these tips for protecting oneself:

Avoid drinking too much

Don't go back to someone's room or leave a party with someone you don't know well

Take a self-defense class

Um, what about the responsibility of the assailant? All of these actions imply that women need to take extraordinary steps to protect themselves by restricting their activity. The implied corollary here is that if you do happen to drink too much/leave a party with someone, and you are assaulted, you are at fault. And apparently, you're even more at fault if you cannot/don't adequately defend yourself. I get so angry. Why this focus on the actions of the survivor? If a woman wants to go out and have a few drinks, she should be able to do so without having to consider herself becoming a target for a sexual assault.

All of this just in time for Valentine's Day. It warms the heart, doesn't it?

2.12.2006

I'm online via an (illegal) wireless connection.I am downloading music onto my computer and thus am able to listen to something other than NPRI am watching WABC on my brother's old television, which he brought into the city on Saturday.The sounds of 9th Avenue are being muted by the snowstorm.

2.08.2006

Looking around my clinical meeting today, I took note of the cast of characters seated around the conference table. The psychiatrist who likes to hear himself talk (and to whom everyone listens with eerie devotion). The Psy-D extern who furtively eats cookies from his pocket and makes eye contact with no-one, ever. The Director who leads our meetings with grace but can't communicate one-on-one. The truly funny psychologist who seems to be deflating before my eyes as the year progresses. My supervisor, whose expression is unreadable. It is incredible to me that these people will sit together for three hours every week, yet ignore each other when they pass in the hallways.

And then there's me: the social work intern who hates to participate in the discussion because of the unwelcoming atmosphere, who blushes every time she forces herself to say something, and who would be virtually unrecognizable as the same person whom her friends know to be intelligent, confident, humorous and warm.

2.06.2006

2.04.2006

I've become one of those assholes who can't make plans without consulting my calendar. It's true, and I sometimes loathe myself for it. The Jammer should have known he was doomed when he asked me when we could see each other again, and I was too tired/lazy/indifferent to get my ass off the couch to check. Anyway.

I'm quite startled to find that it is February. Where did January go? In order to (partially) unravel the mystery, let's consult last week's schedule. (I'm sure this is going to be fascinating for all of you, reading minutae of my life).

Wednesday:Internship 10:00-5:30 (including awkward clinical meeting 11:00-2:00)Social Work with Battered Women 6:00-8:00Dinner with The Lawyer 9:00-10:30In bed with Us Weekly 10:40 (an excellent way to counteract that I just ate all of Thailand.

2.02.2006

My morning started innocently enough; Special K and soymilk, NPR, another mental reminder to buy coffee filters. The problems start when I have to leave the safe haven of my apartment (which, by the way, I absolutely love. I love the light and the uncluttered space and the dishwasher. Oh, and the lack of bedbugs. Definitely appreciating the absence of the bedbugs.) and deal with the outside world. My friend The Lawyer always says that no good comes of leaving the house, and I think she's right.

The 1 train, which delivers me to my internship each day, stopped at 96th street with an announcement that it would be going express to 145th street, bypassing my stop. I reluctantly vacated my seat and waited on the platform, along with the other grumbling commuters, hoping that the next train arrive soon. I hate the MTA; first the strike and now these interuptions, which are happening with more and more frequency. And there's almost never an explanation, which leads me to believe that the changes are part of some arbitrary plot to ruin my day.

I was late to work, and in response to the gentle inquiry of my co-intern, supplied an answer which was laden with expletives. Luckily I had stopped my rant by the time my supervisor came into the office. Unluckily, she had just picked up a batch of flyers from the campus print shop, and asked me to distribute them. Did I go to graduate school to learn how to hang up flyers? Probably not. Does anyone read these flyers? Probably not. Am I learning anything valuable? Probably not.

When I returned from my one-woman campaign against nicotine, I made the unwise decision to call my former management company. We're still haggling over my December rent and the return of my security deposit. I hate being back here. Even dialing that number inspires dread in the pit of my stomach. I hate them, I hate dealing with them, and I hate that I have to continue to communicate with them in order to get my money back.

Thus, the rage. I need to go home, kick something, and then go to yoga.